The Fall
by scribblybits
Summary: Hermione Granger has never known magic. Draco Malfoy has never known love. When this freshly appointed Dark Lord is given this spirited muggle born, it sets off a series of events that escapes their control. Veela!Fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey everyone! Now, before you give up hope in this story, I do plan to continue it. I stopped last year because school became way to hectic, but I am by no means ready to give up my guilty pleasure.**

**Obvious disclaimer is obvious.**

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><p>The hallway outside her cramped cubicle was unusually quiet. This was for two reasons: 1. Suzanne, a rotund brunette in the Accounting Department, was having a bridal party and 2. It was 8 pm at night. While she had been invited, Hermione Granger declined (as expected) to continue working.<p>

In retrospect, she might as well have gone; the silence was so out of place at The Guardian that it messed with her concentration. It didn't help that the story she was working on—that some bloke in Cardiff wanted all speed-bumps painted orange—was completely and utterly dull.

The most recent edition of the paper was sitting neatly on the corner of her desk. Unsurprisingly, the front-page headlines weren't about traffic regulations; rather, they screamed at her about all sorts of unsavory (though, admittedly, profitable) things. Fires, floods, and explosions had torn through Britain in a series of unexplainable events. Tragic events.

And Hermione was stuck with dull regulations and paper-pushing for the higher-ups.

Great.

She sighed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Life had not been going the way she'd planned; her job was a complete dud, her boss was a condescending pervert, and her social life was nearly non-existent. These were all things Hermione had been used to since childhood, and she supposed she could deal with it. What she couldn't deal with was the sensation that she was being watched, constantly. It had started a few weeks ago, and hadn't let up at all. She prided herself on being an intelligent, intuitive woman, and she just knew that something was very, very wrong indeed.

Simply put, Hermione was not satisfied.

Not that she ever was, really. She didn't belong; she knew that, her co-workers knew that, hell, even her parents knew that.

Her family was another constant source of frustration. They'd always been on the religious end of the spectrum, and that hadn't been a problem in her childhood.

In fact, Hermione had loved it. She had loved bragging, to anyone who would listen, about how her parents were _amazing_ people, how they cared for everyone, _especially_ their little girl. She'd loved that they pinned little "Jesus Loves Me" badges onto her clothes, and read her parables at night.

She had the perfect home life, and she couldn't have been happier.

However, after her eleventh birthday, everything changed.

Hermione, with her impeccable memory, remembered the day quite clearly, of course. She'd woken up to the smell of freshly-baked cookies (chocolate chip, her favorite). Sunlight streamed through her open window, basking her face in its warmth. She stuck her head outside, happy to know that, on this special day, there was not a single cloud in the sky (a rare occurrence). Hermione swore she could hear the hooting of an owl coming from her rooftop, although the animal itself could not be seen.

She dressed in her favorite polka-dotted dress, pulled a brush through her tangled curls, and grinned cheekily at her mirror before bounding out the door.

Things were shaping up rather well for her birthday.

Downstairs, though, it was a different scene. On the table was a small pile of presents, which were to be expected, but instead of a cheerful mum and dad, there were two very distraught looking parents.

It didn't seem that they'd noticed her entrance.

"Mummy, what's wrong?" She asked, fidgeting nervously, playing with the frayed hem of her dress. Hermione tried to think of anything she might have done wrong in the past few days. Had her father noticed the hot-chocolate stain on his study's carpet?

Jean Granger had given a startled yelp at the sight of her daughter, and her tears began to flow more rapidly. "N-n-nothing," she snapped, her usually soothing voice unnaturally shrill. "Eat your cookies."

Hermione couldn't help but notice the small envelope clutched in her mum's tight fist.

What followed were undoubtedly the most stressful four weeks of Hermione's life. Her mother was always bursting into tears, and her father always looked angry and stern. They threw themselves onto their work, and, when that didn't solve their problems, religion. It surrounded them, became everything they cared about. All they worried about.

She tried to keep her head down, hoping that the panic in her home would die down.

It didn't.

In the end, Jean and George Granger quit their successful dentistry careers, choosing instead to become a missionary and a priest, respectively. Again, this wouldn't have been a problem, if it wasn't for the fact that they became distant with her to the extreme.

Her home life was completely destroyed.

She knew that this wasn't a by-product of their religion. The church she attended as a child had several fantastic people, all of whom respected and loved one another. She still saw their families embracing after those days, with smiles on their faces.

Just not _her_ family.

And it hurt.

Badly.

Hermione often thought back to those days. She couldn't fathom the change, and her parents had always avoided the topic.

In the public, they were called the _perfect_ family. People praised the devoted Grangers, and dotted on their studious, if strange daughter. Her little catholic town had high hopes for her, with her intelligence and ambition, that someday she'd become Mother Teresa 2.0.

She couldn't help but notice, however, that occasionally, they'd look at her with something akin to fear in their eyes.

Like she was a volcano, ready to blow.

Ready to change their existence forever.

Dangerous.

It was true that Hermione was as odd as she was smart. _Things_ happened around her, all the time. Unexpected things, when she was angry or worried or sad, that no one could explain. One moment, she'd feel something build up inside her, and the next, there was mass panic and confusion. Walls crumbled, animals popped out of nowhere, and people were silenced. Just... weird things.

One time, a group of boys had cornered her in the playground and teased her mercilessly about her frizzy curls. She cried, and cried, but no one came to her rescue.

Quite suddenly, all the boys stopped. Instead, they clutched at their own throats, seemingly choking.

Their tongues had swollen dramatically.

Of course, there was no evidence that Hermione was at fault (they chalked it up to some strange allergic reaction), but that didn't stop _everyone_ from blaming her. And avoiding her.

Things like these made her mother and father very upset, because, for all they tried to hide it, they didn't like their daughter.

Perhaps that was too harsh. Hermione did believe (or perhaps hoped) that they liked her, at least on some level. They just didn't have much in common. They couldn't understand her—neither her oddness nor her lack of faith (had she mentioned the lack of faith? Well, with all the bullying, the concept seemed a bit farfetched). But they wouldn't let some silly thing like that ruin their spotless reputation.

This was, of course, the reason that they invited her back home for the weekend.

She arrived shortly before lunch-time, parking in front of a quaint little brick house with a neat lawn and frilly curtained windows.

The house looked _exactly_ like those around it.

With a defeated sigh, she walked through the freshly painted, spotless front door and into the kitchen, where her mother was preparing food. Hermione's mother was a skinny woman, in her mid-forties, with a stiff back and an even stiffer apron. Her hair was always pulled into a severe bun.

"Hello, mother," Hermione said, forcing a smile.

"Hello, Hermione." Hermione remembered a time when her mother called her Mia, when she was very little. She'd say things like _Oh, Mia, you'll grow up to be so beautiful, _while she'd wrestle her daughter's frizzy hair into a manageable braid. _You'll be the talk of the town._

Hermione found herself wishing that her mum would call her that again. "May you set the table?"

"Sure."

"Place two extra plates, your cousins are coming."

Damnit. "Okay."

It wasn't that she didn't like her cousins, per say. They were fine people… if you believed the definition of 'fine' stretched to fit boring, unintelligent, rude, and manipulative.

In other words, she really, really hated them.

They didn't speak to one another until everyone was seated at the table.

"How is work, sweetheart?" Her father asked. It may sound wrong, but Hermione much preferred her father over her mother. At least George Granger knew how to genuinely smile.

"It's... fine. With all the things happening around the country, people are really attacking the government. There's so much going on, really! I haven't been reporting on the hard issues as much as I'd hope, but I understand that I need to start small and…" He humm-ed at her little rant, seemingly bored at the conversation. Her words died in her throat abruptly.

_Here we go again…_

"The Minister is a heathen," he offered," and that paper of yours is a rag. I told you to get a good, respectable job at the church. You could've been great, sweetheart."

She sighed. This was always a point of contention between her and her father. She loved learned about the world, and she wouldn't give up her journalism career for anything. He thought she should just settle down.

Thankfully, Jean Granger chose that moment to shout out: "Lunch is ready!" and the conversation ended.

Pastor Granger, with his handsome face and salt-and-pepper hair, sat at one end, with his wife seated on his right. He was chatting animatedly with Vivian and Eric, her cousins. Jean was rearranging the cutlery, as if unhappy with Hermione's work.

Vivian fluffed her shiny blonde hair as she turned to face Hermione. "So, dear, find a nice man to settle down with yet?" Her lips stretched to form a sickeningly fake smile. As a child, Vivian always bragged about her 'pearly-whites'; apparently, that fixation had not died with age.

Hermione reddened in indignation. "I'm 21 years old, for god—goodness sake. I don't need to settle down yet! I don't want to."

"Well, all I'm saying, dear, is that you'd best hurry up. It only gets more difficult as you get older." She ran a manicured hand over her hair slowly, in an effort to showcase her gigantically distasteful engagement ring. She was tying herself to some bloke named Merold. Poor boy.

Vivian was a slime ball, in Hermione's opinion. She went to church every Sunday in a stupendously expensive car, with a stupendously expensive dress, and cared nothing for the poor or downtrodden.

It made her sick.

"Care to pray, dear?" Her father asked her. He knew the answer, of course. _No, I wouldn't_. She chose to remain silent, and, with a disapproving glare, her father began the prayer himself.

_"Thank you, Lord, for this food which is set before us."_

Hermione suddenly felt a nervous tingling inside her; a deep-seated sense of foreboding that raised the hairs on the back of her neck. It wasn't out of place; this was a feeling that she often associated with her childhood home.

She was in the proverbial lion's den, after all.

Still, it seemed stronger this time… more potent, and infinitely more immediate.

She was probably being silly, but she couldn't shake away the feeling that something bad was about to happen. She raised her head and snuck a glance at her family, wondering if they felt it too. They gave no inclination that anything was even remotely wrong.

The voice of her father droned on.

_"May we use it to nourish our bodies, and thee to nourish our souls."_

Her heart began pounding in her ears. She could have sworn she heard something outside their house—a faint series of rhythmic popping noises. Why wasn't anyone moving? Did no one else hear?

She became tempted to interrupt the prayer, to tell her father about her suspicions. But then, maybe she really was being paranoid. Her father always hated it when he was cut off.

_"Make us ever more mindful of the needs of others, and the needs of our planet."_

There.

She had definitely heard something now. With a muttered curse, she gave up all pretense of prayer. Her adrenaline was skyrocketing, and she could feel it coursing inside her, concentrating in her fingertips. Her chair toppled over in her rush to stand. Her mother looked up, shooting her a nasty glare that screeched, 'We'll discuss this later, now be quiet.' Hermione chose to ignore this.

Something was very, very wrong indeed.

_"Through Christ Our Lord, Amen."_

CRASH!

The door (and it's fresh paint, what a shame) was blown to bits. In the back of her mind, Hermione registered her family's terrified screams. Oh, why didn't she bring some form of protection! As a reporter for a highly successful newspaper, she usually had pepper spray on her person. But no matter, it was too late now. Instead, she grabbed a steak knife from the table, ready to face whatever came through that door.

She was not prepared for the site before her.

The room began to fill with figures dressed in black… cloaks? It was almost comical, seeing them assembled in her mother's peach-colored dining room with the decorative plates; instead, it was just damn terrifying. They wore horrid masks, white and bony, like death. Hermione was vaguely reminded of a movie called Scream, which a co-worker had recommended for her. She'd declined, on the basis that it looked too scary.

This was worse.

So much worse.

One of them spoke.

"Put that down ya' Muggle bitch. Ain't gonna help you none where you goin'." It was a man, with a rough voice, and his laughter was loud and cruel. Her hand began to shake.

Needless to say, she didn't up the knife down.

"Wha—what are you doing here?" Her eyes darted back and forth, trying to find an opening. She didn't know much about self-defense, but she had taken a class or two of anatomy, and she was sure she'd be able to stick the knife somewhere to cause harm.

But that wouldn't make a difference, she realized. There were at least a dozen of them in the dining room. They closed in on her from all sides, like dark shadows, trapping her in a corner, directly in front of her family.

She took a moment to look at them out of the corner of her eye, making sure that they were all safe. Her mother was muttering under her breath, and Vivian was clutching a Rosary. Both were crying. A sense of pity overtook her at the sight. Despite their problems, they were still _family. _Her father was looking up at the heavens, a look of determination on his face.

A different man spoke. Although it was hard to tell under their heavy clothing, this one was incredibly tall. He towered over all of them. Hermione's knees shook.

He separated himself from the group with an air of grace uncommon of petty thieves. The half of his face that wasn't covered was tan, and his eyes were dark.

Mystery Man-Death-Thing raised a stick—_a wand? _her brain supplied dubiously—in her direction.

"We do not owe you an explanation, you pathetic Muggle. Now, put your knife down. You will come with us. Our Lord, for some reason, requires your presence, specifically."

For a moment, Hermione was too confused to speak. Who were these people? And what they hell were they rambling about? Lords and Muggles—she'd come across the first word, but never the second.

This had to be a prank.

"NO!" It was Pastor Granger who spoke next, darting from the wall. His eyes were wide and wild, and spittle flew from his gaping mouth. Either way, he stood tall, unmoving, in front of these monsters. His gaze was solid, powerful, and his chin jutted out defiantly; he had the look of a man with full confidence in what he was saying.

Hermione felt warmth flood into her heart for her father, who would, despite their differences, stand-up for her dignity. Later, she'd classify that feeling as one of love and admiration. But he continued to speak:

"We swore to ourselves 10 years ago that we wouldn't let your folk take her away. She is normal, I tell you! Normal! We will not allow our daughter—"

The first man interrupted him. "You dare speak, you filth? We are allowed to harm _you_. _Crucio_."

Hermione hardly noticed the strange word this time. Instead, she saw something that would haunt her for the rest of her life. Her father dropped to the floor, screaming in agony. His mouth gaped open, his limps contorting at inhuman angles. His face twisted, his eyes screwed shut. Blood spewed from his nose and through his open lips.

Her father, the man she had looked to her entire life as the physical embodiment of strength, had fallen with a _single _word.

Her mother sobbed louder, joining the yells of her husband to turn the once-peaceful room into a ghastly symphony.

"Stop it, please!" Those words came from her mouth, and she found herself unable to stop speaking. "I'll do anything! Just leave my father alone!" Truth, she realized.

She needed this to end just as much as her father did.

The man laughed, and continued whatever it was he was doing to her poor father.

The bastard.

The color red clouded Hermione's vision. How dare those people—those _monsters_—do this to her family! How dare they enter into a home that is not their own and threaten innocent people? The rage built inside her, bubbling to the surface. It flowed through her, filling every crevice, a growing power.

And suddenly, the man flew across the room, smacking against the wall. Her father lay in a heap, unconscious, on the floor. His breaths came in short pants, and he shook, but he was no longer screaming.

Time seemed to stop for a moment. Everyone was silent, including the previously jeering intruders. She imagined that, beneath their masks, they were rather shocked (goodness knows she was). Then they all began speaking rapidly at once.

"It appears we found a wittle Mudblood." Hermione blanched. This was a woman's voice, and the woman was mocking her. Not to sound sexist, but Hermione couldn't fathom why a woman would ever want to partake in such evil activities. "I want to play with her."

"Settle down, Bellatrix," spoke the tall man, the one from before. Mystery Man. The woman—Bellatrix, she forced herself to remember, if she ever miraculously managed to speak with the police—snarled, but backed off. Perhaps this was the boss?

Hermione could not contain her sigh of relief, even as her head began to spin. Now that they were all speaking, she was getting disoriented. A fierce headache made itself known. And you, Rodolphus!" He turned to the man she had, somehow, managed to hurl across the room. _How did she do that, anyway? _"Are you daft? That little stunt was not part of the mission."

Finally, he turned to face me. "You, Mudblood," was he talking to her? What in the world was a Mudblood? She didn't like it. It sounded offensive. "You'll come with us."

Hands, covered in black gloves, began grabbing at her, pulling her to them. She struggled, kicking and screaming, but their numbers overwhelmed her. She attempted to stab at them, but, in the middle of all the commotion, her knife was thrown to the ground. Two hands clamped, vice-like, on her shoulders, and she was thrown against a man with a large, protruding stomach.

"We gonna 'ave fun with you," he whispered, his foul breath making her dizzy. The man was Rodolphus, she registered. This was the man who had caused her strong, unyielding father to break down without even touching him. For the first time in a long time, Hermione was speechless. Too afraid to utter a single word.

The last thing she heard before being smothered in darkness was a command—kill them—and a flash of green light.


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, dolls! So, I know I disappeared off the face of the earth for a while there. Junior year is much, much more stressful than I thought it would be, and between AP classes and Debate tournaments, I was much too busy to write.**

**Thankfully, this is no longer the case. I've managed to con passing grades, and have been writing much more frequently as of late. I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter, and (of course) review. I should have another chapter out before break is other.**

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><p>When he was 4 years old, he learned the power of manipulation. He had broken his mother's favorite vase, a family heirloom, playing Quidditch indoors. Something that was undoubtedly against the rules. His mother had nearly had a panic attack, screaming through the house like a banshee. When she cornered him in his room, he sobbed, telling her that Fleety, his nanny house elf, had pushed him into the table.<p>

The house elf had been given clothes immediately, and he, well, he got away with it. A new house elf was given to him the next day.

He didn't feel bad.

That little boy had been called Draco, a name that he hadn't heard in years. To the world, he was Lord Malfoy.

The Lord in question was wearing a path in his carpet's study, pacing back and forth. It was a bothersome habit, one that he'd always had and, as a child, been punished for. It was improper, his father would say, for a Malfoy to express nervousness. It was improper to show emotion of any kind. A weakness.

Some would say that Malfoy learned his lesson well. He now faced the world without fear; and, perhaps because of this, the world trembled at his feet.

There was a knock on the door, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Before he could tell whoever the fuck it was to stay out, Blaise Zabini walked in.

"Alright Malfoy, you need to listen to me for once," he began. His eyes were narrowed in frustration, and his tie was loose around his neck, where a vein was pounding fiercely.

Draco snorted. Had anyone else addressed him as Blaise so carelessly did, they'd be Avada-ed on the spot. With a cool smirk, he replied, "sit, my friend. I'm sure whatever you so urgently need to discuss with me can be said in civilized manner."

Blaise's features rearranged into shock. He had not expected his old friend to listen to reason so easily. Draco rolled his eyes. "Really? Oh… ok. Well, then, that was easier than I… of course, let's get to it." He grabbed the seat opposite Draco, who was busying himself by pouring two shots of Firewhiskey.

"Go on then, what is it?"

A small pause, a hesitation, filled the room with silence. Draco tapped his foot impatiently. Blaise swallowed a large gulp of air.

"You've been acting strangely. Do you think that no one has noticed? You're skimping out on meetings, and, hell, we haven't had a raid in two weeks! That's unheard of. They think you're going soft, mate. They fear you too much for an uprising, of course, but there's no way of knowing how long that will last if you don't get your head in the right—wait a minute. Quit laughing!"

His shout of indignation didn't help the situation, of course. Quite the opposite; Draco gave an unattractive snort, effectively ending Blaise's rant.

"Blaise, you worry too much. It's unbecoming."

"It's about _her_, isn't it?"

Silence. Blaise gave an almost imperceptible clearing of his throat. A minute passed, and the dark haired man began to wish that he'd said something, anything, else.

He may be Lord Malfoy's most trusted advisor and (dare he say it?) friend, but Draco was still a very powerful, very personal man.

Finally, Draco sighed. His grey eyes tightened with exhaustion, and a deep frown marred his features. His friend was right, of course. He couldn't get her out of his mind.

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><p>It started simple, as these things often do. He had successfully led a raid against a Muggle town a few hours from London. It was glorious. Spells and curses flew in reds, greens, and purples against the black night. Several men and women of the Order toppled to the ground, withering, bleeding, dying.<p>

He was victorious once more.

Ever since he had taken up the throne, he'd been victorious. That blasted Order thought he'd be an easier opponent than the last Dark Lord, but Voldemort had nothing on him. That poor _saint _Potter, as the leader of the Order, had underestimated him.

And the Muggles and mudbloods of Britain continued to pay because of it.

He was flying away from the rubble. While most of his men simply apparated away, he welcomed an opportunity to survey his handiwork. With a disillusionment charm, he flew low over the buildings.

Then it hit him.

He was about thirty minutes from the sight of the battle when the most delicious scent invaded his senses.

Draco almost fell from his broom.

Following that scrumptious smell, he soon found himself outside a window. The building was unimpressive, as was the décor of the office he was looking into. He was almost sure he had mistakenly flown to the wrong building, but then he saw a girl. She was small, and her frame was awkward as she crouched over something. Brown hair tumbled over an ancient desk, shaded against the light of a Muggle-thingy. Compooter? He wasn't sure.

All he knew was that the smell came from her.

This _Muggle_ girl.

And immediately, he hated her.

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><p>Malfoy tried his damned hardest to forget about that night. About the girl. About that smell.<p>

He concentrated more than ever on conducting raids; his followers were made busier than ever, breaking into Muggle villages and scattering the now disorganized Order members across all of Britain. He channeled his hatred of the girl into destruction.

He had never been more powerful.

And yet, his heart hammered at the sight of brown hair. He hesitated to raise his wand. That had never happened before.

Draco Malfoy was slipping.

Barely a month had passed before he was back at the window. Despite his promises to forget the girl, he could no longer deny his desire to see her. In his dreams, she was there—that long, curly hair and the smell.

He needed to see her face.

Draco did some research beforehand, just to be safe. The building was owned by the Guardian, a Muggle paper much like the Daily Prophet. It employed hundreds of people. Any of them could be her.

It was dark. The girl was at the desk once more, alone. He could hear the fierce clacking of some Muggle machine, which she seemed to be using. It was different than the compooter she had been using last time. She turned, stretching, and at that moment he saw her face.

Beautiful.

He was only able to see her profile, but he knew this to be true. She was beautiful. Her eyes were wide and light, yet sharp and intelligent. She had a button nose and large cheekbones.

Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.

_Mine_.

A low growl escaped his throat, and, if only for a moment, he lost control of his body. His heart tugged against his chest, and his fine, pale fingers gripped the side of the window, as if preparing to haul himself in. He wanted to… bite her. Grab her. Take her away forever, and keep her by his side.

Wait.

What?

Draco did the only rational thing he could. He ran.

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><p>This wasn't happening.<p>

This wasn't happening.

This could not be freaking happening.

With a frustrated shout, he threw a lamp against the wall. It had been a week since the window, a week since those _feelings_, and Draco Malfoy did not know what to do.

After his disastrous encounter with _that girl_, he apparated to his mother's mansion.

The Most Noble House of Malfoy was dark and extremely unwelcoming. Tall, leafless trees with spindly branches sprouted near the front of the house, blocking most of the windows from view. The grass was tall, but not unkempt. Even the wind sounded sinister.

In short, it was perfect for his family.

Draco was reminded, oddly, of Hogwarts. The two buildings looked nothing alike, of course. Hogwarts was warm, and enchanting. Hogwarts was filled with laughter and gleeful children. The Manor was not.

And yet, he had once called both home.

His mother was waiting for him in the parlor. Narcissa Malfoy was, in a word, distinguished. Her hair was always immaculate and her robes were of the latest fashion. She walked with grace and poise, and was able to enchant a room with her polite conversation and docile features. Bright blue eyes shined in her pale face, which was dusted with rouge, and which ended in a small, pointed chin. She was the perfect pureblood, and therefore, the perfect Malfoy.

It was unnerving for Draco, who felt anything but pristine, to be sitting in the perfect parlor in front of his perfect mother.

"What can I do for you, Darling?" She sipped delicately from her tea, raising a pale brow.

"I…I've come to some…_difficulty _recently, regarding a…well, a..." he sharply inhaled. This was way too hard. He couldn't even get the worlds out properly, and a man of his fine breeding and high position should never have that problem.

Exhale. "Oh, for heaven's sake! I can't get this girl out of my head, mother!"

"A girl?"

"Yes, mother, a girl. You know, long hair, big eyes, the most _wonderful_ smell. Actually, I was wondering about that, too. I don't recall ever noticing a female's scent before. And now, well, now I can smell practically anything. My senses have been much sharper than usual and—"

"I know what's wrong with you."

That shut him up. He had not noticed that he'd been ranting, nor had he noticed that he was no longer sitting on a chair, but rather had taken to pacing back and forth furiously. "What is it?" He asked anxiously, forcing himself to sit down once more. "Am I dying?"

It seemed a silly question, but Draco Malfoy had never been more petrified. He had never been so out of control, especially over some stupid female.

"My boy, I was hoping that we'd never need to have this conversation." She smiled sadly at him, walking over to him, sitting down by his side and patting his arm comfortingly. "You know I've always been proud of you, yes? You've grown into such a powerful wizard.

"The Malfoy and Black families are very, very old. In that time, some…discrepancies have occurred. You remember my sister, Andromeda, do you not?"

"Her daughter died in the battle that killed Voldemort—" his mother flinched, "of course. That was the night I was finally able to take over. She died a few months after, escaping to Bulgaria, did she not?" He reached for her hand and held it tightly between his. It must have been hard, he acknowledged, losing a sister.

Especially when your son rules over the people that took her life.

His mother gulped, "Yes, her. Well, years ago, your great-great Grandfather fell in love. This was greatly frowned upon, but he did not care. You see, he was in _love_—" she sneered the word, "and cared not for what was proper in society.

"His bride was a Veela… Oh, Draco. The Veela blood rarely asserts itself in males. This wasn't supposed to happen to you. But… you must have found your mate."

His _what_? That was preposterous!

And yet… he had read about Veelas in school, once. From what he remembered, they were extremely powerful magical creatures, and extremely beautiful (which, he admitted smugly, he was). They had sharp senses, and uncommon grace.

It made sense. It was completely logical.

That would mean…that would mean that the _Muggle_ girl he had seen was his intended!

"The Veela chose wrong then, mother."

"And why is that, Darling?"

"It chose a Muggle."

His mother's eyes widened, almost comically, and her mouth opened in a very unladylike fashion. "That—that—that can't be. The Veela chooses the most compatible mate possible, Darling! She is your equal in all things, magic included...magic especially."

He frowned. Perhaps there was more research to be done on the girl after all.

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><p>"So, what are you going to do, mate?"<p>

Blaise Zabini had been quiet while his friend thought things other. You see, Blaise was not a stupid man. He knew this was hard for Draco. He knew the ramifications and consequences Draco would face, even as Lord, if he brought home a Muggle to wed.

But she wasn't a Muggle, was she?

After speaking to his mother, Draco had done extensive research on the girl. On _Hermione_.

And what he discovered rocked his world.

She was a reporter for the Guardian, and she'd had a fairly normal—if not academically incredible—life. She'd attended the best Muggle university on the planet.

Top of her class: beauty and brains. This girl was phenomenal.

But more interesting than that was what school she _didn't_ attend.

In an old scroll at Hogwarts, the scroll that contained the name of all witches and wizards in Britain, Draco had discovered her name.

The reason she didn't attend? _Lack of Parental Consent_.

That had filled Draco Malfoy with a fury. She could have been his, much earlier. He could have held her and cared for her, he could have claimed her. He could have brought his lips to her lips, could have hidden her away, could have kept her in his bed chambers.

And some stupid fucking Muggles dared stop that. Dared keep what was rightful his away from him.

They would die.

Draco looked up at Blaise, a wicked smirk gracing his features. _Trouble_. "I want you to bring her to me. Tonight."

With a low bow, Blaise walked away, ready to obey his Lord's orders. And Draco? Well, he sipped on his Firewhiskey, and he waited.

* * *

><p>For a moment, Hermione felt as though she couldn't breathe. There was an intense pressure on her eyes, and her throat closed. Her stomach churned uncomfortably.<p>

_They were suffocating her_.

One of the robed men's hands gripped her by the arm, and the two of them were squeezed, tightly.

_This must be what it's like during childbirth…for the child._

And, as suddenly as it had begun, it stopped. Hermione registered a sharp pain to her knees as she fell to the hard stone floor beneath her. She gasped and sputtered, trying to regain the oxygen she'd lost. Her eyes, no longer surrounded by darkness, shifted rapidly, taking in her surroundings.

Well. She most certainly was not in her mother's horrid dining room anymore. She was…

Wait.

Her mother.

Her family… oh, gods, her family.

Her memories returned then, attacking her, clouding her vision with tears. Horrible men. Green lights.

Incredible, insufferable pain.

Hermione screamed.

In that spacious, medieval room, surrounded by men in cloaks, Hermione screamed, and sobbed, and wailed. Hysteria gripped her.

Her family was _dead_.

Yes, they didn't see eye to eye. In fact, they disagreed whole-heartedly on some matters. Hermione would never forget the day her mother called her a _freak_, or the day her cousin spat on her, ripped her dress, and told her she did not _belong_ in the family.

But she was family, damnit, and she had never wanted them to die.

Especially for her. What is it that man had said? _"Our Lord, for some reason, requires your presence, specifically."_

She forced herself to stop screaming. This was not the Hermione Granger way. Hermione was brave. Hermione could fucking _fight_. So, after regaining control of her emotions, she looked up.

And she gasped when brown eyes met smoldering gray.

"Welcome home, darling."

She fainted.

So much for being brave.


	3. Chapter 3

_Previously: _

_She forced herself to stop screaming. This was not the Hermione Granger way. Hermione was brave. Hermione could fuckingfight. So, after regaining control of her emotions, she looked up._

_And she gasped when brown eyes met smoldering gray._

_"Welcome home, darling."_

_She fainted._

_So much for being brave._

* * *

><p>You know that moment where you wake up and everything is peaceful? Where you're wonderfully disoriented, and your memories of the previous night are deliciously muddled?<p>

…Yeah, that's bullshit.

Hermione Granger knew exactly where she was—or rather, _wasn't_—the moment she woke up. She was not in her cozy little apartment in London. She was not pulling an all-nighter at the Guardian. She was not spending the weekend at her childhood home. She was… here.

In the place her captors had taken her, with the stone walls and the grey eyes.

Still, Hermione kept her eyes shut, hoping to block out those memories. Maybe, if she pretended hard enough, everything would go away…

Again, bullshit.

It was impossible to ignore how _wrong_ everything was. The pillows were too soft. The sun was too bright. Hell, even the bed sheets _smelled_ wrong.

They smelled fresh: soapy detergent and sandalwood, and something entirely unique.

Hermione had always been a very…particular person, even as a child. Her family labeled her stubborn and spoiled because of this, but she always wanted things done a certain way. Lunch had to be served at 12:30, exactly. Homework had to be divided by due date and class.

And laundry was done with rose and vanilla scented detergent.

She forced her eyes to open.

The added stimuli confirmed what she had desperately wanted to ignore.

This wasn't her room.

Oddly enough, she wasn't afraid. Even with her knowledge of the last night's events, she couldn't force herself to fear. The room was truly beautiful, and some part of her—maybe the part that had always loved Disney movies—was unable to reconcile with the possibility that something so… so _wonderful_ could possibly be dangerous.

The room was large, and very open. The sun, which had irritated her earlier, was pouring through large windows, and reflecting off of cream colored walls. The bed, covered by that soft, green duvet, was large and spacious. A light green rug of the same shade covered part of the dark hardwood floor.

Shakily, she rose from the bed and towards the vanity.

Her appearance shocked her. It wasn't that she looked…different, per say. Her large brown eyes were surrounded by the same, purple bags, and her nose was still pert. But she looked gaunt. Her eyes looked tight, and worried. Her clothes—thankfully she'd not been changed—were incredibly wrinkly.

And her knees were scabbed and bruised.

She continued to stare at herself, trying to find something else amiss. Thankfully, she was mostly unscathed.

At least physically, that is.

It was not long before her curiosity began building. The beautiful room, of course, looked nothing like the stone-walled prison she'd originally seen. And those men… and those eyes.

Hermione needed some answers. Quickly. And so, gathering up all of her courage, she called out for someone. "Hello? Anybody?"

No reply. On shaky legs, she walked to the large, ornate doors. They were truly beautiful, but, unlike the rest of the room, they were also terrifying. The designs carved into the dark wood gave a sense of foreboding, and she hesitated when thinking of what could be on the other side. With bated breath, she reached out to the over-large knob, and slowly turned.

Locked. Of course.

With a frustrated groan, she turned away.

* * *

><p>Hours had passed. Hermione was beginning to fear.<p>

_What if they had forgotten about me?_ Her stomach rumbled. _What if they're just going to let me starve?_ Her eyes darted once more around the glamorous room. _What if I'm to become a… sex slave?_

She moaned into that delicious-smelling pillow, and waited.

Time continued to pass. Hermione watched the sun rise and slowly set through her window. Her mind was adrift, and, slowly, her eyes began to close.

Suddenly, the doorknob began to turn. Its noise was strikingly loud in the silent room.

Hermione quickly stood.

There was a man where the closed door had once been. He was incredibly tall, his lithe silhouette draped in dark clothing. His robes contrasted shockingly with his pale skin, which gleamed almost ethereally in the dying sunlight. His hair was a light blond, almost white, and slicked back.

None of that caught Hermione's attention.

No. What she truly noticed was his _eyes_.

They appeared large on his face, almost (but not quite) disproportionate. They were grey, and clear, but upon closer inspection they held a depth, a promise of secrets untold. All in all, they were incredibly alluring.

In short, he was all parts intimidating. He had an aura of power and importance that was impossible to ignore.

Hermione didn't really know what to say, so she watched.

The door closed and locked behind him.

He grinned predatorily. She suddenly felt small.

"Well," he said. His voice was as deep as his eyes, and oddly soothing, like the silk sheets on her heated skin. "I must admit, I expected more of a fight from you. My men described you as quite the little hellcat."

His grin widened, and he took a few slow steps toward her. She didn't concentrate on that, however.

_This man is responsible_, she thought_, for the suffering of my family_. He had sent those horrible people into her parent's home. He had allowed—or perhaps even ordered—their deaths.

In that moment, she knew what he truly was.

A monster.

"Let me hear your voice, my sweet."

Hermione didn't want to obey him, but her thirst for knowledge was far too great, and she found her mouth opening anyway. "Who are you?" she asked, pleased that her voice did not tremble.

"My name is Draco Malfoy—you, my sweet, may call me your Lord." Hermione jumped, biting back a frightened squeak. In those few seconds, this man—_I will not ever call him lord_—had closed the distance between them. His hands gripped her shoulders, his hard chest pushed against her own. She stumbled, but he steadied her, tucking her head underneath his chin. Hermione swore she heard him inhale, loudly.

_Is he really sniffing me? What in the world…_

"I've been waiting for you," he said, simply.

This struck Hermione as odd. It was _she_ who'd been waiting for _him_. The constant gnawing of her stomach was proof. He ignored her pondering expression and continued:

"We can be together now."

Wait… what? _That_ caught her attention. The man was clearly deluded. "Y-you are insane!" she found herself screaming, ashamed at how shrill her voice had gotten.

As she tried to back away, his grip on her tightened. She tried to strike him with her fists, but he blocked her moves, moving one hand to grasp her at her wrists. Her eyes met his, and she gasped. They were no longer grey, but black—and it wasn't just his irises. Both of his eyes were shrouded in a haunting darkness so complete, so malevolent, that they caused her knees to tremble and shake. "You are wrong," he whispered. His voice had taken a supernatural quality. "You will accept this. You have no choice. You belong to me, little one."

That was the last straw for Hermione. How dare this stunning and intimidating man _kidnap_ her and force her to… what, date him? "NO," she screamed, her voice full of rage. Tears of anger leaked out of her eyes. She felt truly hysterical. "I'm not doing shit with you. You _will _let me go, or I'll… I'll…" she felt a rush of power surge within her, building, like a storm. She was reminded of what had happened the night before with Rodolphus. It was a wondrous felling. "I'll hurt you."

She'd expected him to flinch. She'd expected him to step back. Truly, she didn't know what to expect of him, but she hadn't expected him to laugh.

But, oh, did he laugh.

The sound was annoyingly attractive.

"There's my little spitfire," he said, smiling affectionately down at her. His pearl-white team gleamed maliciously. "I must say, your passion… it's extremely attractive."

Hermione became acutely aware of something pressing against her stomach. Her eyes widened.

In a small voice, nowhere near as powerful as before, she asked, "Are you going to… to r-rape me?"

Now his eyes widened.

He dropped her as if he'd been burned, and she fell, weak-kneed, onto the bed.

He shook his head fiercely. His eyes had returned to their normal grey. "No! No, my sweet. You must understand. I could not, would not ever do _that_ to you. I-I know you have suffered. I'm sorry. But… god, this is difficult. I just _want_ you. Here. With me. I would _never_ hurt you."

She sighed, locking eyes with him. The air in the room was thick with tension. "Don't _you_ understand?" she whispered sadly. "You already have."

Malfoy—because that's what she decided she'd call him—looked away, thoroughly ashamed. Hermione felt an odd ache in her chest—to go comfort him? But she quickly shook that thought away. After all, she told herself, he deserved it. And more—much more.

"Yes. Well," he said softly, clearing his throat. "I imagine that you must be hungry. I'll have a house elf bring you some food." He paused, as if hoping for a reply. Receiving none, he continued. "Don't try to run away. You will not succeed."

And then, without meeting her eyes, he turned on his heel and left.

* * *

><p>Draco Malfoy kicked the wall in frustration.<p>

He had her.

He fucking had her.

_She_ was in his room, sitting on his bed. She was under his complete control. He could have taken her.

_If my followers could see me now, I'd be a fucking laughingstock_.

This was ridiculous. He'd tortured before. He'd killed before. Hell, he'd ripped apart entire villages—on his own—before. And he'd done it all without the slightest feeling of guilt.

He'd never shown any mercy before. Why did this one girl—who didn't even _know_ of her magical abilities, who was, for all intents and purposes, a _mudblood_, someone he was raised to revile—make him suddenly compassionate and remorseful?

Malfoy would not let her change him.

Hermione would bend to _his_ will.

She was so beautiful. She wasn't skinny, like a lot of pureblood witches he'd known. No, she was curvy, soft. _Amazing to hold_. Her skin, he'd learned, was smooth and warm, and her hair crackled with magic and begged to be touched.

Her eyes, those beautiful brown eyes, demanded the world of him, and he'd gladly surrender.

And her smell. _Merlin, that smell_.

_In other words,_ he groaned, _I've become a total fucking Hufflepuff._

He made the short trek from _their_ bedroom to his office. With a sigh, he flopped onto his chair, conjuring a tall glass of Firewhiskey. He forced himself to relax, even though his bones and flesh and heart were screaming at him:

_Go to her. Mark her. Claim her._

_Mine._

* * *

><p>Hermione, meanwhile, was positively freaking out.<p>

There was something about that man—about Malfoy—that made her not-entirely-lucid…something that awakened a fragile, feminine side of her.

And she hated it.

She wanted to be strong in the face of adversity. She wanted to stand up to this man, to punish him for his cruelty. She wanted to avenge her family.

And here she was, still on the bed, positively powerless.

It just wasn't fair!

Deep in her internal musings, Hermione did not notice a small _pop!_ in the room. She did, however, notice the room's new occupant.

She screamed, crawling toward the middle of the bed. That… that creature was not _human_. How could it be?

It was green, and small, and fleshy. It's ears were a large—just like it's pale yellow eyes—and it did not wear clothes, but a black handkerchief wrapped around its tiny body like a toga.

It carried a tray in its long, bony hands.

"What _are_ you?" She asked after a moment.

The little creature beamed up at her. "My name Mipsy, Miss! Mipsy's a house elf! She serves Lord Malfoy, she does." Mipsy's voice was high and squeaky, but not unpleasant. Hermione found herself smiling along with the little elf, whose ears began to flop in excitement. "Of course, Mipsy is very pleased to have the new Miss to serve! Mipsy has brought you food, she has!"

Starving, Hermione accepted the tray from the elf's hands. "Thank you!"

And then something very queer indeed happened. Mipsy's eyes filled with tears, and her small body began to tremble. She flung herself to Hermione's feet and began openly sobbing against her.

"Miss is very kind to Mipsy! Thank you! Thank you!" she wailed.

Hermione, startled, did not know what to say. What kind of place was she in where a mere 'thanks' was deemed the epitome of kindness? Hermione came to the conclusion that this house elf was very badly treated, and she made a promise to herself to protect the poor creature from the monsters surround them.

She also realized at that moment how little she knew about the world. That unique, sentient beings coexisted with humans on this planet was news to her, and that she had not known something so humungous and life-altering was completely unacceptable.

She was Hermione Granger, goddamnit. She was smart. She should know these things.

Of course, she'd always had a sneaking suspicion that she was missing out on something big. Those robed villains had proved her suspicions true.

There was magic in the world all along.

And Hermione would not rest until she knew more.

After eating her dinner—which was mouthwatering and delicious—Hermione continued her perusal of the room. Tucked against one corner was a bookshelf. Unsurprisingly, Hermione felt drawn to it. One book in particular called out to her, demanding to be read.

She plucked it off the shelf and settled into bed with it.

With a smile, she read the front cover:

_Hogwarts: A History_

* * *

><p>An hour had passed since the Bedroom Fiasco, and Draco Malfoy was completely sloshed. He had successfully drowned his sorrows in Firewhiskey, leaving only a dull ache. Only she could save him from that, he knew.<p>

It just wasn't fair!

He was pureblooded. He was powerful. He was the fucking Dark Lord, damnit. Why couldn't she just submit to him? There was so much he could teach her, so much they could do together…

Her lack of worshiping him was disconcerting. Most girls, even in his youth, followed him like lovesick puppies. Those who didn't—members of the 'Light,' as they'd liked to call themselves—usually perished under his rule.

He'd never had a problem manipulating others to his will.

And yet… and yet there was a girl in his room, right now, that cared nothing for him.

That loathed him.

The thought alone made his heart constrict painfully.

He realized that he could not do this alone. He needed someone to help him—someone who knew how to approach this situation delicately. _Yes,_ he found his inner Veela agreeing. _Our mate is small, and fragile. We must not make her fear us._

Draco shook his head violently and grabbed another bottle of Firewhiskey. It was so… strange, having another being inside him. Yes, he knew his Veela and he were technically one and the same, but it still felt as though there was someone—something—sharing his body with him.

It was unnerving, really.

Just thinking about it made his head throb painfully.

Speaking of throbbing painfully…

He had not yet been able to remove her from his mind. _She was his, damnit!_

Tomorrow, he promised himself, things would change.

Tomorrow, he would not be a soft fucking wimp.

Tomorrow, _she_ would submit.

And with that thought, Draco laid across his office sofa and fell asleep.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'd be very surprised if anyone actually remembers this story, to be honest. I know it's been a long, long time since I've last updated, and for that I offer my humblest apologies. No one had told me Junior year would be THAT hectic. However, after multiple scholarship applications, 5 AP tests, 1 SAT, 1 ACT, and many, many debate tournaments, I am finally free for the Summer.**

**My goal is that I do finish this story, eventually. I'll try to keep a semi-regular update, but it's probably best that you guys don't hold me to that.**

**Thank you so much. If you could leave a review, I'd appreciate it. Tell me anything. What you thought, where you want this story to go... I'm open to suggestions, really. :)**


	4. Chapter 4

__Previously on The Fall:

_He had not yet been able to remove her from his mind. She was his, damnit!_

_Tomorrow, he promised himself, things would change._

_Tomorrow, he would not be a soft fucking wimp._

_Tomorrow, she would submit._

_And with that thought, Draco lay across his office sofa and fell asleep._

* * *

><p>Draco Malfoy was standing near the bed, watching his mate as she slept.<p>

The moon was high in the night sky, and it shined adoringly on her face. She looked serene, bow-shaped lips parted and slack, hair flying across her pillow. Her dark eyelashes painted shadows on her smooth cheeks. She looked, to him, like a goddess.

Fate was very strange, indeed. It had cursed him with this vile affliction, but in doing so it offered to him the sweetest of rewards.

All he had to do was take it—claim it as his own.

And he had plans to do just that.

He'd woken in his office in the middle of the night, groggy and hung over. At first, he wanted nothing more than a Sobriety Potion to destroy his liquor-induced headache. But beyond the pounding in his head, he felt a twitching in his fingers, a restlessness in his legs, and a tugging in his heart—those would not go away with a simple potion. Those that demanded he return to her.

With all the stealth of a pure-blooded Slytherin, he creeped silently from his office to the bedroom. The door gave way with a simple _Alohamora._ As he crossed the threshold into the room, he was once again stunned by her blinding—almost painful—beauty.

In her arms, clutched tightly to her chest, was a book. It was thick and well-used, bound in the best of elfish-made leather. Malfoy knew, without looking, what the book was.

Draco smiled ruefully down at her.

The issue of her magical education was one he'd contemplated seriously, and he'd come to the conclusion that there were two possible outcomes—all depending on her compliance. If she worked _with_ him, he would gladly show her his world. He would teach her all that he knew.

After all, a Malfoy bride had to be extremely magically talented.

If she continued to work against him…well, he didn't want to consider that yet.

_Damn her fucking Muggle parents!_ He groused, frustrated. While he certainly never had the 'number one dad' (_Lucius was a right bastard, and I'm ecstatic that he's burning in Hell_, Draco thought savagely), both his parents had always prioritized his education. In fact, he could not imagine his own life without magic…and to wonder, she'd been without it for over 21 years…it was a cruel and unspeakable to deprive a gifted child in that way…

Still, he could not deny that there were benefits to her cluelessness. Most obviously, it made her vulnerable and easy to capture when the time came. Outside of her accidental burst of magic, the mission was executed flawlessly. Certainly that would not have been the case if she actually could fight back. But even more troublesome was the fact that his mate struck him as the noble and brave sort—a bleeding-heart, really. _Would she have been sorted into Gryffindor? _He knew from the Hogwarts records he'd stolen that Hermione was meant to study in his year.

_Would she have despised me, then?_

_Would she have fought against Voldemort?_

_Against me?_

Malfoy's stomach lurched painfully at the thought, and a thunderous noise rumbled in his chest. His mate would never have to face the horrors of war. He recalled quite clearly the days of Voldemort's reign. It was disgusting—a time of total depravity. As the Dark Lord's 'Right-Hand Man', he participated in the darkest of activities. _Could he have saved her from the former Dark Lord? Would he have dared?_

Things were different now. After Voldemort had fallen, everyone thought the War was over—and indeed, for a short time, it was. But what some saw as the 'Era of Light', Draco saw as an opportunity. Infiltrating the weakened post-War Ministry had been incredibly easy, especially with his family's vast wealth. He promised reform—and boy, did he give it.

Simple rhetoric won the hearts of new followers. Malfoy wisely stopped attacking Muggleborns (at least openly), and called for the ushering of 'renewed magical unity,' and the 'building of a powerful magical community'.

The Death Eaters and their new, charismatic Dark Lord had successfully won the war, and while Pothead and his 'Army' were still at large, sprouting riots here and there, there was no doubt that Malfoy was in total control.

There was little open warfare. There was little opposition.

He could keep her safe.

If he introduced her to his world, she would be eternally grateful…she would willingly give herself to him…hell, she would fucking _worship _him. And now, all he needed was a plan.

Tentatively, he ran his fingers down her face. _So soft_. _Warm_.

God, he wanted to take her so badly. He wanted her small body writhing underneath his, her legs wrapped around him, her beautiful lips pressed against his own.

He wanted to sink into her until they both became one, united, until there was no way to tell when he began and she ended.

He wanted to drink from her radiant beauty, to capture her light against his heart and never let go.

He wanted her to submit to him, fully, as a mate should.

_Soon_.

He crawled into the bed with her and wrapped his arms around her torso, bringing her to him. When she did not stir, he pressed his nose against her hair. The smell of strawberries and vanilla and the sound of her steady heart lulled him to sleep.

Having awoken after him, she remained blissfully unaware that she'd shared her bed with the enemy.

* * *

><p>Hermione stretched languidly. She'd spent the part of night reading, only stopping when her eyelids felt too heavy to continue. <em>Hogwarts: A History<em> was perhaps the most fascinating, most revolutionary thing she'd ever read.

And she'd read a lot of books.

_Could it be true?_ She asked herself. _Could there truly be a place so…so…magical?_

Hermione instinctively knew the answer to that question. _Yes._

The book had answered so many of her lifetime questions:

Why she always felt so different, so other, no matter where she sought her company.

Why crazy, inexplicable things had happened around her.

Why her mother and father hated her.

She was a _witch_.

A witch!

With a contented sigh, Hermione snuggled deeper under the thick duvet, the precious book held tightly against her chest. Yes, it had certainly answered many of her questions—but it had raised even more. Her mind was abuzz with curiosity, with a thirst so insatiable that it left her mouth dry. She wanted answers. She _needed_ answers.

_Hogwarts_. She closed her eyes dreamily. There had been a picture—a moving one!—on the first page of the book, and now she tried to imagine herself inside those ancient stone walls. _What house would she be in? Would she make any friends? What would her professors be like?_

Hot tears leaked from her eyes. _She had missed so much._

Well, no more.

Lost in her thoughts, Hermione was startled when the door slammed open. Malfoy took quick steps into the room, his graceful, powerful strides bringing him across the vast expanse of the room and onto the bed in mere seconds.

His eyes were that terrifying onyx black again, almost like tunnels. They made her feel unequivocally isolated…or at the very least hidden away. She shrieked.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, voice rough with concern. She was too startled to answer, and he didn't wait very long. Like a dark predator, he crawled closer to her. His otherworldly eyes pinned her against the headboard—she'd never felt more trapped, not even amongst those masked demons. "Tell me, little one, the reason for your tears."

Suddenly, an arm shot out from his side, encircling her small waist. In one fluid movement, he brought her to his lap. She squirmed, beat her fists against his chest, and kicked out against him but his grip did not lessen. The sinewy muscles of his forearm contracted around her, annihilating any chance of escape. With his free hand, he played with her curls.

"Let go of me you son of a bitch! Let me go!"

"No!" he snarled. Like the flip of a switch, Malfoy _changed_. His eyes had returned to their normal grey, but his expression had turned even _darker_, and Hermione couldn't help but note how dangerous he looked in that moment. Those eyes had taken a feral quality, and his lips curled upward in his rage. He flipped them over so that he was on top, straddling her, pinning her against the bed with the weight of his muscular body. "You will tell me what is wrong, and you will tell me now."

She spat in his eye.

"I refuse to fear you."

The room was silent. Tension hung like a thick blanket across them both. Hermione dared not breathe.

Minutes passed. To Hermione, they felt like hours. Finally, Malfoy broke the silence.

"Do you?" Malfoy whispered. Hermione almost wished he'd yell. His voice was no more soothing than before…in fact, it held a menace that chilled her to the bone. "Well, then. We'll just have to change that, won't we?"

He shook her roughly one last time. Hermione swore she could feel her teeth rattle.

_And then he was gone_.

* * *

><p>Hermione was left entirely alone for the day. Malfoy did not come to see her. Mipsy did not bring her food. This new silent treatment from him unnerved her. Their previous conversation played over and over again in her head. <em>We'll have to change that…<em> what did he mean? He had looked so furious, so terrifying when he'd said it, filling the room with a sense of foreboding in the room that left her on edge.

She read and re-read her favorite parts of _Hogwarts: A History_, trying desperately to maintain calm.

It didn't work. The looming sense of danger she was feeling kept her from submerging herself fully in the book, and it was hard to get lost in the literature when her eyes darted towards the door every few minutes.

As the sun was beginning to set, Malfoy barged into her room.

Once again, he was dressed in black. Hermione wondered idly whether he owned anything of color. His posture was tense and his eyes flashed with determination.

"Come," he said stiffly.

Confused, and recognizing the anger that burned just under his expressionless surface, Hermione did as she was told. She rose from the bed, trying valiantly to maintain composure, and followed him. He was silent.

As they passed through the room's threshold, it came to her that this was the first time she'd been allowed out of the room since she was first put in it. Curiosity mixed with her dread, and she couldn't resist the urge to look around.

The hallway outside her bedroom was narrow. The walls were painted a murky brown, the color of rain-soaked tree bark. Paintings of regal-looking men and women could be seen, staring scornfully down at them. It seemed that the hallway was just as sinister as her captor.

Malfoy's hand wrapped tightly around her wrist, dragging her through the long, dark hallway, down a flight of stairs, past another hallway, down another flight of stairs…the house—or rather, mansion—was huge, and they walked for a very long time. Finally—after one last flight of stairs—Malfoy stopped.

The space they were in was ghastly in appearance.

It was composed entirely of ancient stone, and Hermione could tell that she was underground by the cold that seeped through her flimsy clothing. There was no natural light—instead, torches hung on the walls, casting long shadows across every surface. There wasn't any visible furniture.

"These are the dungeons," said Malfoy, his voice cold and unfeeling. She flinched. "If any witch or wizard…objects to my rule, they are placed here for…ah, _rehabilitation_." He dragged her to a cell.

At first, Hermione thought she was going to be thrown in there for her defiance. Her hands began to shake, and her knees began to wobble. _Could I handle being locked down here?_ she wondered frightfully.

But the cell was already occupied.

Behind the thick metal bars, there was a boy. He was slumped against the stone walls. His hair and face were filthy, his clothes tattered beyond repair. He couldn't have been older than 18…and yet, he stared defiantly at Malfoy.

"This is Dennis Creevey," Malfoy drawled. "We captured him three weeks ago."

Hermione did not like where this was going. "W-why are you showing me this?"

"Because," Malfoy replied, "I'm not used to being disobeyed. I don't like it."

In any other situation, Hermione would have thought he sounded like a petulant child, denied his favorite toy…if only that were the case.

And suddenly, Hermione was sitting on a chair, with ropes winding tightly around her ankles and wrists. _They had appeared out of nowhere,_ she marveled. She struggled, attempting to loosen the ropes, but their bonds became increasingly painful. Before long, she found herself completely immobilized.

Vulnerable.

Powerless.

Just like he wanted her.

And in the time it took her to gain her bearings, Malfoy was inside the cell, standing across from the young boy. He kept his attention on the boy as he addressed her.

"I told you I would not hurt you, my sweet, and I will not go back on my word. But I will not tolerate your foolish tantrums any longer. I've been accommodating to this point, but it is time you learn your place."

He whipped out his wand in one fluid motion and pointed it in the direction of Dennis Creevey's chest. The boy did not shrink away. Instead, he fixed his gaze on Hermione. After an unbearably long moment, the boy broke into a smile. "It'll be okay," he told her.

"Silence!" Malfoy snapped, stepping closer to the boy. "Remember, my sweet, that everything that happens to him tonight _will _be your fault. It will most certainly _not_ _be okay_. _Crucio_."

The horribly familiar scene played out before her. Instead of her father, Dennis was convulsing on the ground. Instead of that disgusting masked man, Draco Malfoy, the man who claimed to _want_ her, was torturing the poor boy—without even a modicum of remorse marring his features. Yes, the situations were disturbingly similar.

Both times, it had been her fault.

Rudolphus had tortured her father because _she _refused to go with them. She insisted on fighting.

And Malfoy was torturing Dennis for the same reason.

It _was_ her fault.

All of it.

Tears filled her eyes and poured down her cheeks. "Stop it, Malfoy, please!" she screamed. Her voice sounded foreign to her ears. She closed her eyes.

And he did not stop.

Malfoy looked to her then, his stare icy cool and unaffected: "Look away and his suffering will only increase."

So Hermione forced her eyes open. Bile rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to claw her eyes out. She wanted to claw _Malfoy's _eyes out. He looked so calm, so collected, as though the chaos of the world, of her mind, could not affect him.

_He's a monster,_ she reminded herself.

Time stretched on. Though there was no way of keeping it in the dungeon, Hermione estimated that the torture had lasted an hour. It was hard to tell. Malfoy would stop for a few minutes, and Hermione would think it over, and then he would start afresh. Minutes were unbearably long, punctured only by Dennis' grunts of pain and her babbled pleas for mercy.

The image of that young boy, lying on the dirty floor, back arched unnaturally, legs bent at awkward angles, eyes screwed shut in pain, teeth biting lips, drawing blood but refusing to scream, denying the obvious agony, denying Malfoy his victory, would be forever engrained in Hermione's mind.

Finally, Malfoy lowered his wand.

Dennis lay prostrate on the floor, violent spasms rocking his body, his shuddering groans echoing in the room. Hermione wanted to run to him, to offer some sort of comfort. She pushed against her restrains, and discovered with shock that they came apart quite easily.

She sank to the floor almost immediately.

Her stomach churned with nausea. Had she eaten that day, she would have undoubtedly thrown up.

When her lightheadedness passed, she looked up. Draco Malfoy towered above her, piercing her with his powerful stare. "Now you understand," he said softly, "what is expected of you." Her eyes lowered to the floor once more, blinking away tears. He wasn't going to allow that. His fingers found purchase under her chin, tilting her face to him once more.

This time, his eyes were warmer, clearer. "I had to make you understand." He leaned impossibly closer to her, his even breaths fluttering against her skin. She didn't have the energy to fight back. He kissed her sweaty forehead, and a shiver of revulsion shot down her spine. She made no attempt to hide her disgust.

With a sigh, Malfoy picked her up in his arms.

As he carried her effortlessly out of the dungeons, showcasing his incredible physical strength, she looked back to Dennis' cell. She wanted to meet eyes with him again, to tell _him_ that it would all be okay, to offer him _something, anything_ that would take away the pain.

But he was already passed out.

And before they reached the bedroom, so was she.

* * *

><p><strong>Two updates within a week of each other? I'm keeping my promises?<strong> **What has this world come to?**

**Yes, it appears that with summer, I've found time to write again. It feels so good.**

**Don't you just want to slap Draco in the face? What an ass .**


	5. Chapter 5

_Previously:_

_Draco Malfoy towered above her, piercing her with his powerful stare. "Now you understand," he said softly, "what is expected of you." Her eyes lowered to the floor once more, blinking away tears. He wasn't going to allow that. His fingers found purchase under her chin, tilting her face to him once more._

_This time, his eyes were warmer, clearer. "I had to make you understand." He leaned impossibly closer to her, his even breaths fluttering against her skin. She didn't have the energy to fight back. He kissed her sweaty forehead, and a shiver of revulsion shot down her spine. She made no attempt to hide her disgust._

_With a sigh, Malfoy picked her up in his arms._

_As he carried her effortlessly out of the dungeons, showcasing his incredible physical strength, she looked back to Dennis' cell. She wanted to meet eyes with him again, to tell him that it would all be okay, to offer him something, anything that would take away the pain._

_But he was already passed out._

_And before they reached the bedroom, so was she._

* * *

><p>"So, what are you planning on doing with her?"<p>

The question was posed by one Blaise Zabini. He sat on a comfortable upholstered chair, facing his friend and Lord Draco Malfoy across a wide, ancient desk. Both men held tall glasses of Firewhiskey. Draco swirled his, eyes narrowed in thought.

A week had passed since Draco had taken Hermione to the dungeons. Things had been…awkward, to say the least. The night after the incident was the worst. Draco had only _just_ closed his eyes when she began screaming hysterically, thrashing violently in his arms. At first, he thought she'd awoken. It took him a few minutes to notice that she was still asleep.

The look of horror on her face was enough to drive him from the bedroom.

And if there was anything worse than the nights, it was the long days.

In the week since the Incident, Hermione Granger had closed herself off to him entirely. She moved robotically, refusing to meet his eyes or show any sort of emotion.

Her obvious suffering ignited something in him that was hard to describe. It was not guilt or remorse—no, she definitely needed that lesson—but a part of him, probably the Veela, felt extremely uncomfortable with the situation.

She was so fucking beautiful.

Over the past week, he'd learned more about her. She didn't speak to him, no, but he observed first-hand her love of books and the delicate way her brows furrowed when she was confused. He saw her take small bites of her food and take dainty sips of her drink.

She was obviously intelligent, and…and…fuck, just fucking perfect.

"I will demand her surrender."

Blaise snorted. "You realize that won't work, don't you? God, that girl must be a descendent of Godric Gryffindor himself! Merlin, I haven't even met the chit and I know there's no way you'll force her into anything."

"You don't get it, do you Blaise? I can't let her control me. I can't be fucking weak. I was manipulated by father and by that bastard, Riddle. I refuse to let this girl do the same."

"Well, you're going to have to find a way to get over it."

Draco groaned in frustration and downed the rest of his drink.

XXX

A week had passed since the Incident.

It felt like mere minutes.

Every time she closed her eyes, Hermione Granger saw the dirty, broken body of Dennis Creevey. She was haunted by his gaunt face, his cracked lips. He came to her in her dreams, pleading for mercy.

And the grey-eyed devil laughed in the background.

In her calmer moments, Hermione read. The bookshelf by the bed had a number of fascinating texts about the magical world, and she eagerly absorbed their information…and yet, her wonder was mixed with fear and disgust. Magic was tainted now, corrupted by that evil bastard Malfoy.

Her curiosity felt extremely morbid.

Outside of her books, however, Hermione was a shell of her former self. She functioned almost entirely on autopilot—she ate when she was hungry and slept when she was exhausted, but she received no pleasure from her continued existence. It was as though her mind had shut down.

Which may have been for the best, considering _his_ near-constant presence.

Draco Malfoy was a perpetual fixture of the room. The first night he came to her, Hermione had nearly lost her mind. She screamed at him to "get out!" and "leave!" Through her sobs, she uttered profanities against him. When he remained, she began to throw things. Plates, vases, pillows—anything she could get her hands on.

Nothing worked. He simply sat down on the dark leather sofa and _watched_.

After a few days, Hermione managed to control her anger around him. Indeed, he never tried to engage her in conversation, or interact with her in any way. He just continued to _watch_. He watched her eat, and read—hell, she was sure the sick monster watched her sleep, too!

Malfoy's silent appraisal was difficult to stomach, at best. Still, Hermione reasoned, it was better than him talking to her. She would choose this creepy, quiet Malfoy over the cruel, mocking one any day.

And it was because of his conspicuous absence, a week after the Incident, that Hermione knew change was afoot.

Hermione had awoken early. It was an uncharacteristically sunny day in England (she assumed she was still in the country, although she had no evidence of that), and she longed to feel the sun's rays without the barrier of windows.

She sighed sadly before turning her head toward Malfoy.

Except, he wasn't there.

In his stead was Mipsy. Hermione found herself smiling softly at the little creature. She had realized very quickly that Mipsy was a kind and gentle soul. She was endeared by the elf's innocence.

Mipsy was the only friend she currently had.

"Hello," Hermione greeted quietly. "Is it time for lunch already?"

The House Elf shook her head violently. It was then that Hermione noticed how _nervous_ she looked. Mipsy usually looked a bit frightened, partly because of her bulging eyes, but Hermione had never seen her wring her hands or quake quite so much.

"What's wrong?"

"Wrong?" Mipsy squeaked. "Oh, nothing is wrong Miss Herminny, nothing at all. It is just that, M-Master has asked Mipsy to prepare Miss…I broughts dresses for Miss Herminny to wear. M-Master wants Miss Herminny downstairs very soon!"

The elf continued to ramble, but Hermione noticed nothing after that. She knew who "Master" was…but why he wanted her out of this glamorous prison, she could not fathom. She hadn't left the room and its adjoining bathroom in a week, and she shuddered to think of the reason why she'd left before.

She tried to recall anything she may have done to upset him, but could think of nothing, and in what seemed like no time at all, Hermione found herself dressed to the nines in a feminine, silky green dress and dark cloak, hair tamed in a long braid down her back. She stared at the door apprehensively, wondering what awaited her.

"This way please, Miss Herminny!" Mipsy cheerfully led her out of the bedroom and through a maze of hallways. Hermione was relieved to note the mansion looked much less intimidating in the daylight, though it was still far from welcoming. Her spirits further brightened when she realized that Mipsy was taking her _away_ from the dungeons, in the entirely opposite direction.

Her bright mood was short-lived.

Mipsy had brought her to a large dining room. An impossibly long, mahogany table served as the focal point of the room. It, and the 20 or so chairs surrounding it, all had clawed feat. A large chandelier lit the room, casting shadows on the dark striped wallpaper.

Worst of all, Draco Malfoy sat at the head of the table, his narrowed eyes burning holes into her.

"Hermione," he said, his voice carrying surprisingly well across the room. "I'm glad you could join me"—_as if I had a choice_, she thought—"please, take a seat."

Apprehensively, she stepped through the room's threshold, moving to the chair farthest from him. Malfoy was quick to spot this, and his eyes narrowed further. "You will be sitting next to me, my sweet. Come." And somehow, mechanically, she did. Her feet dragged her across the room of their own volition. It seemed to take _forever_ to get to him, but eventually she found herself sitting stiffly beside him.

With a snap of Malfoy's fingers, Mipsy and another house elf (whose name Hermione did not know) appeared, arms straining under mountains of food. They set their burden on the table, bowed to Malfoy (Hermione did not bother to hide her disgust at this), and vanished from the room with a sharp _pop_.

Hermione looked to him, waiting for a condescending remark or a command, but he simply placed a napkin on his lap before digging in. Confused, she followed his lead. For a few moments, the only noise was the scrapping of utensils and her quiet gulps, which sounded incredibly loud in her ears.

The food was delicious, of course, but the strangeness of the situation kept her from enjoying it fully. It was so surreal, sitting here with this man, this man who she had seen torture and torment, as if there were nothing wrong in the world.

Yes, this day was very weird already.

"How are you?"

"What?" she asked, flabbergasted.

"I asked how you were."

_Well, this was new._ Hermione was reminded vaguely of her family dinners, which were equally uncomfortable, if not nearly as threatening. With a pang, she remembered the last family dinner that led to this whole fucked up situation. She looked up from her plate and was immediately captured under Malfoy's steel gaze. _Is this some sort of trick?_

She closed her eyes to escape his hard stare and was assaulted by images of Dennis Creevey. Deciding not to test his patience, she mumbled, "I'm, uhm, okay."

"Good."

"Yeah."

_Well, isn't this awkward._

Hermione was almost full before he spoke again.

"I grow tired of this game," Malfoy stated matter-of-factly. Hermione's eyes widened. _This is it_, Hermione thought frantically, _he'd brought me here to toy with me…now he's going to kill me._ As much as she hated her current situation, she didn't want to _die_. She had barely begun to live!

Everything happened so fast. She screamed "no" and threw a plate at his head, simultaneously kicking back her chair. Her feet stomped against the cold marble tiles, echoing the furiously pounding blood in her ears.

He was going to kill her.

She had to escape.

Somehow, miraculously, she reached the door before he reached her. She grasped the doorknob tightly in her sweaty palms and twisted it…

Locked.

_When had it been locked?_

Panting, Hermione pressed herself against the wall, searching desperately for any escape. There were no windows, no other doors. Her eyes sought him out once more, only to see him slowly stalking towards her.

Draco Malfoy's tall, lithe body moved fluidly. In that moment, he was a predator, and she, his prey. His lips were stretched in a smirk that raised goose-bumps on her arms.

He knew she was trapped.

"I don't think you understand," he said, his voice taking a strange and ethereal quality. "You are mine. I won't let you go—" _when had he gotten so close? _"—Give in, darling. I could make _this_ so good for you."

His hips pressed against her. She gasped as she felt his arousal against her stomach. Tears clouded her vision. "But you said you wouldn't hurt me!" she cried desperately, pushing against his chest. "You promised!"

He growled. "Have I not given you every comfort?" He asked. "Have I not provided for you?"

"You hurt Dennis! You _killed my family!_"

His fist slammed into the wall behind her. She squealed in alarm. "Silence!" Her hazel eyes met his grey ones, and she gulped audibly in fear. "It is time that you stop this foolish resistance. I've tried everything. This isn't a request. I command you to submit."

Hermione opened her mouth in protest, but before she could utter a single word, his mouth swooped down over hers, and he was plunging his tongue inside of her, and he smelled so god damn fantastic, and the room was suddenly much smaller and much hotter. Her concentration broke, and even as her mind screamed at her to end this, her eyes fluttered shut.

Tentatively, she prodded her tongue against his.

He moaned loudly.

Suddenly, she was in his arms, and they were speeding down the hallway. And then they were in the bedroom, and he was dropping her against the comfortable sheets, never once disconnecting their lips.

God, it felt so _good_.

How could it feel so good?

Hermione whimpered, grasping his shirt in her small fists—whether it was to push him further away or impossibly closer, she could not tell. Her mind felt sluggish and slow, and through the haze she heard only one phrase: _give in_.

The voice was not her own.

At that moment, it was incredibly difficult to remember why she hated him so much. All she could think of was his smell, his rough hands, his muscular form pinning her down…

Malfoy had become frantic above her, his hands skimming across her body. A shiver ran down her spine as his calloused hands brushed against the underside of her breasts, hidden only by the thin cloth of her dress. His lips left hers, trailing down her neck. Hermione nearly lost it when his lips attached themselves to the junction of her neck and shoulder.

"You taste so fucking amazing," he panted into her ear.

It felt as though she'd been doused in cold water. The fog lifted from her vision, and she realized how close she'd come to surrender. Her parents, her cousins, Dennis…how could she betray them like that? Tears burned her eyes and stained her cheeks.

"Please…" she croaked, "Let me go." He groaned, sucking the delicate skin of her neck, trying to elicit a response. She remained frozen beneath him, heart hammering. "Please."

He finally stilled above her, burying his face into her hair. Hermione listened as he took deep, calming breaths against her skin.

"Why do you resist me?"

His question confused her. Obviously, she was justified in her dislike. He was rude, and arrogant, and he hurt people without remorse. Simply put, he was not a good person.

But that wasn't the reason she truly hated him.

All of her life, she'd been carefully controlled by those around her. Her parents dictated how she was to live, who she could hang out with, and what she was supposed to enjoy. Even after escaping their clutches, she reported directly to her bosses.

She'd never been _free_.

Her magical abilities should have granted her some sort of power over her own life, but instead they only led her to him.

He was overbearing and controlling and possessive and she couldn't handle it.

"Please," she repeated.

With a great sigh, Draco Malfoy rolled off her, keeping one arm draped across her small waist. Hermione hated how small she felt around him, how frail and breakable.

"You know, I won't always be able to stop." Hermione's eyes widened at his warning. "One day, my instincts will take over, and I will fuck you into the ground. Every day, the urge to rip into you, claim you, becomes stronger…if you don't give in soon, I will."

Hermione tried not to blush at his sinful words. She had been raised to believe that sex was an act committed by two married people who loved each other. And she definitely did not love this man.

Even if he did make her feel wonderful things.

"Are your…uhm…_urges_ a wizard thing?"

He chuckled. "I guess you could say that. Listen, I meant what I said earlier. I'm tired of this game of cat and mouse."

"Then let me go."

Malfoy gripped her tighter at the thought. "That will not be happening."

She blinked back tears at his assertion. _I will never be free_. "I'll never be happy with you."

"I could give you so much, darling. I've seen you pouring over my books…I could show you the magic that has inspired those words…I am a very powerful man. Under my guidance, you would be a great witch. Will you let me teach you?"

Hermione considered his proposal. Malfoy was obviously deranged, yes, but she did not doubt his magic in the slightest. Giving in to this request may give her the advantage she needed to leave this horrid place. If he wasn't going to let her go on his own, it was likely that magic was her only hope. She could even use it to help Dennis…

"Deal."

XXX

The very next morning, Hermione awoke to find a sheet of paper on the pillow next to her. In an elegant script, it read: _'Your first lesson begins today. I have provided you with appropriate attire—you may find it in the bathroom. Mipsy will bring you to me after your breakfast. –Yours, as you are mine, Draco Malfoy'_

And that was when she realized her world would never be the same.

* * *

><p><strong>So, how do you think their first <em>lesson<em>will go? Draco's still an ass, I know, but at least he's an ass who feels bad about it...sometimes. He just can't resist our little Hermy, can he?**

**See guys, I do know how to update semi-regularly!**

**Reviews are like meth...except, you know, good. Awesome. You should give me some...reviews, that is. .**


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